Karl Bacon (29 page)

There was a heavy blow to my abdomen, and the last of my breath was crushed out of me. A terrible scream brought a sudden end to my idyllic illusions, perhaps a demon from hell shrieking at the sight of one more sinner escaping his clutches.

“I’m sorry, Sarge, but I need to get you to a surgeon.” That wretched scream had been my own as Otto hoisted me over his shoulder. He set off at a heavy, loping trot; each of his weighty footfalls sending a shock of searing torment coursing throughout my body and eliciting groan after groan of deepest anguish.

“I’m sorry, Sarge … I’m sorry, Sarge,” Otto repeated every few yards as I watched large drops of dark red blood fall in a steady stream from the toe of my right boot.

“I’m sorry, Sarge,” I heard Otto say one last time. We had reached the safety of the dark woods. Now, a much deeper, more ominous darkness overtook me, and the last thing I saw before I succumbed to its power was a huge pair of Hickham’s boots plodding quickly but surely to the rear.

Who can find a virtuous woman?
for her price is far above rubies.
PROVERBS 31:10

F
LAMES ONCE AGAIN LICKED AT MY FEET AS
I
WORKED MY WAY
closer to the tree line at the base of Laurel Hill. Acrid smoke stung my eyes, drawing tears. A hail of bullets tore at the branches of the cedars on either side. Every musket was loaded and capped, bayonets gleamed in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. Officers screamed orders in anticipation of the charge everyone knew was coming. Confederates atop the hill watched intently for any sign of movement in the tree line below, their every gun trained on us.

Colonel Carroll raised his saber high.

“Charge!” rang the command up and down the line.

A thump on my shoulder. I flinched at the pain soon to follow, but it was a warm, gentle hand that had touched me. “Michael.” A voice that did not belong—a woman’s voice, a sweet voice. “Michael, where are you?”

The clamor abated, the flames and smoke receded. I turned away from the heat and flame. Jessie Anne stood beside me,
leaning down to look into my face. “Michael, where were you? Which battle were you fighting this time?”

I turned back to gaze into the embers of the fireplace. My cold, unlit pipe drooped from my lips. As if of their own volition, rather than any conscious will, my shoulders shrugged.

“That’s your response? A shrug of the shoulders? Is that all you’ll allow me today?”

I did not, could not respond.

Jessie Anne drew up a chair and sat down beside me. Then she took my hand in hers.

“You know, Michael, I’ve asked myself that question hundreds of times; Where are you? I’ve never told you this, and perhaps I shouldn’t tell you now, but I grieved for you every day you were gone. No, I didn’t go about weeping into my kerchief all the time—I was too busy with the children and the store for that. But there was a vast empty place deep inside me, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. It was very much as if you had died. You were just … gone.”

We spent the next few minutes in silence.

“Do you know what today is?” Jessie Anne asked.

“Saturday?”

“Yes, Saturday, and what sort of day is it?”

“What sort of day?”

“Is it cloudy or sunny or raining or snowing?”

“I think it’s cloudy today, maybe snow later.”

“No, the sun is shining and the day is mild. The snow has melted and the crocus and daffodils are peeking out. The beauty of springtime is appearing all around us.” She paused for a moment before asking me the next question. “What’s today’s date?”

I stared blankly at the hearthstone.

“Today is the thirteenth of March,” Jessie Anne said. “It’s Sarah’s birthday, Michael.”

I lifted my head to look at her. “Yes, it is, the thirteenth of March.”

“And do you know how old she is?”

“Nine, I think.” Her fierce look told me I was wrong. “No, ten years old.”

“She’s thirteen! She’s becoming a young woman, and you haven’t seen it. Edward will be nine next month and little James is almost three.” Jessie Anne looked directly into my eyes; her sorrow was evident, even to me. “Believe me when I tell you that I count it a small miracle that James was ever conceived. Do you understand what I’m saying, Michael?”

I nodded slowly. “But my leg …”

“Yes, I know, Michael, your leg was buried in Virginia, but were you buried there as well? Where’s the man who could always make me laugh? I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh. No, your leg healed long ago, years ago. You have been home four-and-a-half years.” Every syllable of these last words was sharp and distinct. “Last fall you went to New York to see Doctor Hudson again. With this new leg you’re getting about quite well. Your leg is as good as it’s ever going to be, so stop blaming all your troubles on your leg.”

“I’m sorry, dear, I’ll try—”

“When you’re at the store the work seems to occupy you, but if not for Otto, the store would go bankrupt and we would live in the street. It used to be that people at church would ask if there was anything amiss with you. Now they never ask, and you have declined Reverend Bainbridge’s attempts to speak with you.”

“He’s very young. What does he know? I preferred Reverend Preston.”

“Well, he’s been dead two years, and Reverend Bainbridge preaches the Word. I know the war was terrible, Michael, but where is the man I married? Where is the wonderful, loving man
I knew before the war? You may have lost your right leg, but I lost my husband. Why have you not returned to me, Michael?”

I had never had a cogent answer to such complaints in the past, nor did I now. Several more silent minutes passed, but I knew she wasn’t done.

“Michael, this morning I was doing some cleaning. I found something in the closet that I thought you should see.” She placed a small bundle upon my lap. It was wrapped in a swatch of faded red cloth and tied with string. “You told me that Otto brought it to you at the hospital at Cold Harbor, and you carried it with you all during your convalescence at Annapolis, and you had it with you when you came home.”

“I know.” I tried to put the bundle aside.

“No, Michael, open it. It was important enough for you to keep, but it’s been in the back of our closet ever since. Open it now, Michael.” From her apron she produced a knife and deftly cut away the string.

I slowly peeled aside the layer of cloth, knowing what I would find and wishing not to see those things again. “My personal things, a journal, pen and ink, a letter to you I never posted.”

“Let me see it.” There was no denying her outstretched hand.

She read intently for a few minutes, in silence except for an occasional sniffle.

“You wrote this the day before you were wounded?”

I nodded slowly, once again staring into the firelight before me.

“‘Perhaps tomorrow it will all end,’ you wrote. Did you sense that it would?”

“No, dear, my only hope was that the war would end quickly.”

“And is this the way you feel now? ‘Perhaps tomorrow it will all end?’ Are you just sitting here waiting to die?”

Her questions stung me. “I don’t think so.” I fought to find more words but could not.

“And you closed with, ‘Until the end I remain ever faithfully
your affectionate and devoted husband.’ I think you still are this man, Michael, but I don’t know if you do.”

Once again I could not answer.

“And this journal. I read them all except this one. You write so well, yet you’ve written nothing since the war.”

Jessie Anne reached for the last item. “And what’s this?” I said nothing as she picked it up to look at it more closely. “Michael, this is not the Bible your father gave you.”

I shook my head slowly.

“What’s this dark stain?”

“Blood.”

“Yours?” Her voice was a muted whisper.

I shook my head again.

She unfastened the clasp and opened the Bible. “What a darling portrait—a lovely family.” She turned to the front plate. “Wyatt? It belongs to a man named Wyatt?”

“Belonged,” I said. “He’s dead.”

“How did you come to have it, Michael?”

It was a story I had no wish to tell, for I knew that in so doing, I would reveal to my beloved exactly what sort of man she had married; yet tell it I did. In as measured and even a voice as I could muster, I told Jessie Anne every detail of my warring at Gettysburg, of every man I had killed there, and of my encounter with Mr. Augustus Wyatt of the 26
^th
North Carolina. When I recounted how I had rejoiced when my bullet struck him, how I had wished only to finish him off with a thrust of my bayonet, and how I had knelt beside the man reading Scripture as he died, she sat with head bowed low to her lap, her tears staining her white apron. I went on to tell her of my killings in the Wilderness, and when I told her how my final victim died in agony upon the breastworks, she gasped and trembled beside me.

Jessie Anne remained silent and unmoving for some time. I
could tell she was deep in thought or prayer; I knew not which. Finally, she lifted her head and turned toward me. “No man should ever have to endure what you have, my dear.” She took a white, lacy kerchief from the pocket of her apron to dry her eyes. “I think you should take it to her.”

“What?” Perhaps I had not heard correctly.

“You should take it to her—the Bible. It was his. She gave it to him. It’s their family in the portrait. If it was me, I would want it back, no matter how many years later. You must take it to her.”

“We could send it by post.”

“No, I think not. I think this is something
you
must do.”

“I can’t—”

“You must and you will.”

“How could I ever …?”

“Travel? To North Carolina?” Jessie Anne had set a straight course. There would be no turning to the right or to the left. “I think the stationmaster will help with the arrangements. We’ll go to see Mr. Thomas first thing Monday morning.”

Gordon Thomas turned from the large map on the wall. “The railroad will get you close,” he said, puffing his pipe slowly. “You already know about half of the route, Michael. It’ll be the Orange and Alexandria southwest to Gordonsville, then the Virginia Central into Lynchburg. The East Tennessee and Virginia line will take you through Roanoke and on down the west side of the Blue Ridge to Wytheville. Jefferson should be within two day’s ride.”

“I can’t ride a horse, Gordon.”

“I’ll see what can be arranged.” Gordon thought for several moments. He took a deep draught from his pipe, slowly letting the smoke escape as he traced his finger lightly over the map. “I’ll need to send several telegrams to learn the precise nature
of the rails and the schedules. Do you want me to inquire after lodging, Michael?”

“Yes, please, Mr. Thomas,” Jessie Anne said before I could reply. “It will take several days to reach his destination, so please ensure the reputation of each establishment. Michael will be traveling through Rebel country, and his safety must be our chief concern.”

“It will be, Mrs. Palmer.”

“And no travel on the Sabbath, of course.” Jessie Anne stood and went to look at the map more closely. “It’s that last part over the mountains into North Carolina that worries me most. You said there’s no railroad. Is there a coach route?”

“I’ll need to inquire about that,” Gordon said.

“Well, Michael can’t make that journey alone,” Jessie Anne said. “So if there are no coaches, he’ll need someone trustworthy to take him, someone who won’t take offense at going about with a Yankee soldier.”

“I see you’ve given this some thought, Mrs. Palmer. It may take several weeks to make all these arrangements.” Gordon turned to me. “When would you like to begin this journey?”

“May should be the best time,” I said. “May was always the time for starting the spring campaign, so I think it fitting, and the roads should be firm.”

“That should give us ample time. Do you mind if I ask you why you’re taking such a long trip, Michael?”

“A private matter, Gordon.” I glanced at Jessie Anne. “Something left over from the war that it seems I must do — someone I need to speak with, if I can.”

“All right. I won’t divulge your destination to anyone. Now, about the telegraphs, there will be costs.”

“Here’s twenty dollars.” I retrieved a gold piece from my pocket and placed it in his hand. “I expect to pay all of the wire
charges in both directions, so if you need more, please tell me. I will also pay you for your time.”

“No, you won’t,” Gordon said. “You paid enough during the war, and besides, I am already paid by the railroad. Will your family be all right without you?”

“We’ll manage well enough for two or three weeks,” Jessie Anne said with a steady look at Gordon, “and Otto is more than able to manage the store.”

“That’s something about Otto and Dot getting married.”

“Yes, it is,” said Jessie Anne. “Perhaps something truly good did come from the war. I think John would have very much liked Otto as his son-in-law.”

For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.
ROMANS 8:18

S
ATURDAY, THE
15
^TH
OF
M
AY, FOUND ME SITTING IN A ROCKER,
smoking my pipe, on the veranda of the Wytheville Hotel, a narrow two-story brick structure directly across the street from the Wytheville railroad station. The smoke was particularly sweet and satisfying—I had procured some of Virginia’s finest tobacco at the depot in Lynchburg. “Withful,” the brutish stationmaster had sneered, “it’s pronounced
Withful
.”

While not warm and welcoming, Mr. Waverly, the owner of the hotel, was at least cordial and efficient. A handwritten message awaited my arrival the previous evening. “Mr. Palmer,” the message read, “Will meet you at hotel 10:00 a.m. Saturday. S. Jordan.” I thanked the Lord for Gordon Thomas’s diligence.

Early morning rains had ceased, but lowering clouds remained, obscuring all but the lowest slopes of the mountains to the south and east. At precisely ten o’clock, a young man walked out of the station and crossed the street.

“Mr. Palmer?” The man huffed and puffed as if trying to
catch his breath; droplets of sweat fell from his matted light brown hair.

“Yes, I’m Michael Palmer.” I held out my hand.

“Sam Jordan.” The man’s huge sweaty hand crushed my smaller one. Samuel Jordan was a teamster by trade and he looked the part. About thirty years old, he stood about five feet six inches tall and was sturdily built, much like Jim Adams had been. Years of loading and unloading cargo and driving teams had developed the bulk of the man’s chest, shoulders, and arms. He wore a simple gray cotton shirt, and his patched brown trousers were held up with a pair of blue suspenders. His black slouch hat had a white sweat stain all around the headband. At first, he seemed rather gruff, but his deep blue eyes were warm and sincere.

“I’ve been loading the wagon for Monday morning because tomorrow’s the Sabbath. I hear you want to go to Ashe County, Mr. Palmer.”

“Yes, I do. How long will it take?”

“It’ll take two days if the weather holds. Jefferson’s the county seat. Is that where you want to go?”

“That will do for a start, but I’m searching for someone in particular, a Mrs. Wyatt.”

“It’s a personal thing then?” Sam asked, his eyebrows arched.

“Yes. Something left over from the war.”

Sam’s disposition darkened. “You’re not looking to kill anybody, are you? I’ll have no part in that.”

“Nothing like that. You might say it’s like the last page of a book that needs to be written.”

“Fair enough. I won’t pry further. We leave at dawn on Monday, spend the night in Independence just north of the state line, should be in Jefferson dinnertime on Tuesday. I start back at dawn on Thursday. Will one day be enough time for your business?”

“I hope so.”

“You’re a long way from home, Mr. Palmer, and there’s not a lot of call to take someone into Ashe County. Most people in these parts are good, honest folk, but there’s others who would just as soon slit your throat—as much for being a Yankee as for the dollars in your pocket or the shirt off your back.” I shifted a bit uneasily in the rocker. “But you’ve nothing to fear from me. I’ll be glad of the company.”

“Speaking of dollars, I understand your fee is to be twenty dollars, half at the start, half when we return?”

“Yes, ten each way,” Sam said, accepting the payment with
a nod and a smile. “By the way, Mr. Palmer, are you a church-going man?”

“I am.”

“My family attends the Wytheville Presbyterian Church. It’s just down to Church Street, then left a short way, just a five-minute walk. Service is at eleven. Afterward, you’ll take dinner at our home.”

I was at the depot at dawn on Monday, tired and stiff in spite of two days rest, but ready for the journey nonetheless. Sam already had the team of four horses hitched to the large wagon. The cargo was covered with a large piece of canvas tied down securely with rope. As Sam helped me onto the wide driver’s seat, I noticed a new repeating rifle and a scattergun under the seat. He was also wearing a holstered pistol on either hip.

“Expecting trouble?” I asked. Sam flicked the whip softly, hardly touching the flank of the lead horse, and the heavy wagon rumbled out of the depot.

“‘It happens to us,’” Sam said, “‘as it happeneth to wayfaring men; sometimes our way is clean, sometimes foul; sometimes up hill, sometimes down hill; we are seldom at a certainty: the wind is not always at our backs, nor is every one a friend that we meet with in the way.’”

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” I said.

“It’s not Jordan. It’s Bunyan, from
The Pilgrim’s Progress, Part the Second.
I always pray for protection, but I also prepare for whatever may happen so I can get safely home at week’s end.”

That day the way was clean but mostly uphill as we traveled the thirty miles to Independence. Tuesday’s route was easier, with fewer long climbs, but it would be longer—almost forty miles.

“Do you make this trip very week?” I asked Sam Tuesday morning.

“Not every week,” he said. “I drive my team wherever there’s a load to be had, but it’s this run to Ashe County that puts food on my table.

“Is someone meeting you at Jefferson?” he asked a few minutes later. We were crossing the New River on a wooden plank bridge that groaned under the weight of the loaded wagon, and while Sam seemed perfectly at ease, my white-knuckled hands gripped the wagon seat, thinking the next moment would see us plunging into the swiftly moving water below. Once safely across, I reached into the breast pocket of my coat and took out the priceless sheet of paper that Gordon Thomas had given me.

“I’m to meet a man by the name of J. Crane at the Jeffersonian Hotel.”

“That’s Jubal Crane, Old Jube, most of the local folk call him, a bit of an odd fellow and a Unionist, I think. Lots of mountain folk were against secession, but when secession passed, there was no shortage of volunteers. Many heroes came from this area.”

“I met one of them.”

Sam looked at me sideways. “The last page of that book again?”

“Yes.”

We arrived in front of the Jeffersonian about six o’clock that evening. Sam helped me descend safely from the high seat of the wagon and handed me my travel bag. “Until Thursday at dawn,” he said, and with a strong handshake he was off to unload his cargo.

“Jubal Crane? Sure, everybody knows Old Jube,” said the proprietor. “Has a room over at the widow Barclay’s boarding house.
I’ll send a boy over to fetch him while you’re taking dinner.” I thanked the man, picked up my bag, and slowly ascended the stairs to the second floor. I unpacked my travel case, washed the road grime from my face, and went downstairs to the dining room.

The fare at the Jeffersonian was not elaborate but it was tasty, a hearty beef-and-turnip stew with bread and butter. Afterward I sat sipping a cup of hot black coffee when a shrunken but energetic old man shuffled into the dining room.

“You Palmer?” he asked in a high, raspy voice as he approached my table.

“Yes, I am. Are you Mr. Crane?” My extended hand went unnoticed.

“Yep. None other. Mind if I …?”

“Please sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Don’t mind if I do, sure enough.” Jubal Crane was completely bald except for several stringy shoulder-length silver strands that sprang out from over his ears and from the back of his head. White, bushy eyebrows framed the tops of his small spectacles, behind which gleamed a pair of small brown eyes. A full white moustache covered his upper lip and partially hid his mouth. He had on a well-worn white shirt, a faded green tweed jacket patched in several places, and he held a large straw hat in his bony left hand, a long striated pheasant feather stuck gaily into the hatband.

“I was given your name as a man who knows just about everyone in Ashe County.”

“Pretty near, but there’s been some new folks comin’ in since the war that I ain’t never met. Foreigners, I call ‘em. You that sort?”

“No, Mr. Crane. I was hoping you might be able to help me find Mrs. Constance Wyatt. Do you know the Wyatt family?
I have a portrait.” I passed over the old, worn likeness of the woman and the three children. The old man sat sipping his coffee for several minutes. His small eyes narrowed to thin slits as they darted between the faces in the portrait and my face.

“What do you want with her?” he asked.

“To return the portrait, and also her husband’s Bible.”

The old man shifted uncomfortably in his chair several times as if weighing a difficult decision. When he spoke, his words were soft and somber. “He was my grandnephew. My daughter’s the one that done the paintin’. Last time I saw Wyatt was about eight years ago when the Jeff Davis Mountaineers went off to join up with the Twenty-sixth. Wyatt was killed up north. How come you have his paintin’ and his Bible?”

“He was shot in front of my regiment at Gettysburg. I was with him when he died.”

“Then I’m guessin’ you’d like to talk to Constance?”

“If possible.”

“She got married in sixty-five to Elmer Ennis. They have a sheep farm about six miles west of here, out by Claybank Creek. Take about two hours to get there. I suppose I should go with you—haven’t seen that family for some months, before the winter, I guess. I can’t say yea or nay if she’ll see you, but I expect you’ve nothin’ else to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Crane. But there may be one small difficulty.”

“What’s that?”

I rapped the tip of my cane on my false leg. “I lost it at Cold Harbor and can’t mount a horse. Do you have a small carriage? I’ll hire it for the day.”

“I use Mrs. Barclay’s runabout whenever I need it, and there’s no need for money to change hands, long as we’re goin’ to see family. I’ll be by in the mornin’, Mr. Palmer, about eight.”
The Ennis place lay atop a knoll just across the lane from Claybank Creek. Split-rail fences lined the lane, just like those I had used as firewood during the war. Chickens scurried about as we drew up to the house; laundry flapped in the breeze from a rope stretched between two trees; a large well-tilled vegetable patch appeared to have already been planted.

“Wait here,” Jubal said, “I’ll ask if she’ll see you.”

The door of the house opened and a woman with a straw broom in hand stepped out onto the porch before Jubal had mounted the first of its three steps. On sight, I knew her to be the woman in the painting, save that she appeared much older now. The two hugged and the woman kissed Jubal lightly on the cheek.

“Uncle Jubal, how nice to see you,” I heard her say. “It’s been so long. What brung you way out here?”

The two spoke privately for a minute or two, occasionally throwing glances in my direction. Then Jubal turned and headed back to the carriage.

“She’ll see you, Mr. Palmer. Let’s get you down so you can meet Constance. Then I’ll just go on up the road a piece to see Elmer. He’s workin’ in the north pasture.”

Constance Ennis could not have been over thirty-five years of age, but she appeared years older than me. Her long, light-brown hair was streaked with gray, leathery creases in the skin of her face and neck told of years of hard mountain farming and childrearing. When I offered my hand in greeting, her grip was the strongest I had ever known from a woman; her hand was thickly calloused and cracked.

“Uncle Jube says you’re someone I should talk to—a Yankee down from the north with news of Wyatt. Come into the kitchen and set a spell.” She offered me a simple wooden chair at the kitchen table. A large pot of something that smelled heavenly simmered atop a soot-covered wood stove in the middle of the
kitchen. “Becca and the boys are down to the school. Elmer’s drawin’ water off the creek for the sheep, and little Stevie’s asleep in his crib. Like some tea? Always keep a pot on the stove when I’m cookin’.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you.”

Constance filled two heavy pottery mugs and set them on the table. “Tell me, Mr. Palmer,” she said as she sat down, “how is it that a Yankee comes a-knockin’ at my door this fine day?”

“Just call me Michael, please.”

“I never use a man’s Christian name till I know what sort he is. Where you from?”

“From Connecticut, Mrs. Ennis.”

“Where’s that?”

“Up north between New York and Boston.”

“Sounds like a long way, and a hard go of it to get here.” She paused for a moment, deep in thought. “I figure the Lord brung you.”

“You may be right, Mrs. Ennis, because I’ve had much help along the way.”

“So why’d He bring you?”

“Mrs. Ennis, I met Augustus Wyatt during the war. I believe he was your husband.”

“Yes, but he was known as Wyatt, just Wyatt—never liked Augustus.” A faint smile passed across her lips. “Said it ain’t Christian, but he never took another name for fear of shamin’ the memory of his dear mother. Got a letter from his captain, I did.” Her gaze fell to her hands embracing the hot mug in front of her. “It said Wyatt was killed up north at Gettysburg, but they never found him. You know about that?”